


Blood is Blood

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, M/M, Season/Series 06, vampire!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/7359.html?thread=7913151#t7913151">blindfold_spn prompt</a> - Dean gets turned, and true to his word, Sam won’t leave his brother alone out there. No matter what. Sam becomes Dean’s willing donor and Dean loves/hates it. Hates it when Sam gets anaemic and weak and frail, loves it when he begs to be turned too</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood is Blood

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So glad I decided to go for this prompt and very sad that this was the last round of blindfold_spn. It's a wonderful comm. I gave this a quick look over so I apologise for any and all mistakes you may find. This was originally posted [here](A/N:%20So%20glad%20I%20decided%20to%20go%20for%20this%20prompt%20and%20very%20sad%20that%20this%20was%20the%20last%20round%20of%20blindfold_spn.%20It's%20a%20wonderful%20comm.%20I%20gave%20this%20a%20quick%20look%20over%20so%20I%20apologise%20for%20any%20and%20all%20mistakes%20you%20may%20find.%20This%20was%20originally%20posted%20<a%20href=).

Sam is true to his word even after he gets his soul back. It's Dean who isn't able to take it.

It's one thing being a monster. It's another being a monster in front of Sam.

So he packs his things quietly, Sam in an exhausted sleep on the other bed, the weight of Michael and Lucifer visible in the tiny shift of the shadows over his face as he frowns in his sleep. His hands slowly clenched into fists at his sides, beads of sweat shimmering lightly on his skin. Dean tries not to look because every time he sees the lines on Sam's wrists—on Sam's upper arms—the ugly black, blue, green surrounding the vivid tear at his throat barely healed, his stomach turns and Dean thinks he's going to throw up. 

Too much. He's been taking too much.

Sam never tells him to stop. Always just catches Dean's face with hands a lot gentler than Dean is used to, and the last time, he'd even stroked his thumbs over Dean's cheekbones. Like Dean wasn't killing him slowly.

Sam's heart, every beat of it pulses between Dean's tongue and the roof of his mouth, too loud. Though it isn't as bad as the smell. It has Dean sitting hunched on the furthest edge of the bed, hands over his ears, back curled, head resting just above his splayed knees.

It feels like his stomach's cleaving to his spine with every single heart beat and his tongue is, clumsy and thick with saliva pooling around it. He doesn't understand how, but despite the distance, Sam's heat coats his back. It sticks to his skin like searing wax that'll sting if he tries to peel it off.

So he packs up, tosses his stuff in the back of the Impala and leaves a message for Bobby to come pick up his mentally fucked brother and pulls out of the lot with the scent of Sam's sweat still clinging to the back of his throat.

~

Two days of frustrated calls, messages on his phone, they're made up of hurt edged anger and threats. Just plain swearing from Bobby. Then they stop.

Five days after that, Dean snaps.

~

He's in Texas and he's covered every single source of light coming into the motel. He's got both pillows piled over his head and both blankets on top of him. His skin feels cold and hot all at once and his gums itch so bad he's tossed away his kit to keep from taking a razor to them.

He can hear the cockroach crawling underneath the floor, can hear the creaking of the bed loud and screeching, like nails on a blackboard one floor up and six doors down. He can hear the ping of the bell at check in, a new customer tapping his foot impatiently when someone fails to come out and get them a room.

Worse is that he can smell the woman coming down, can hear the way her footsteps slow down as she gets closer to his room. 

It's the same woman that's been walking all over the motel room. There's a limp in her step. He's been listening all day and he's figured it out. 

She smells of industrial cleaner, the slightest hint of metallic lemon following her. But the smell of her blood, warm and thick in Dean's mouth—that has his eyes trained on the door from where he's peeking from beneath his pillows. He's breathing hard, his mouth open and it sounds ragged in the silence of the room like he's been running nonstop for weeks. 

He's thinking he should've done it earlier. His hand is still curled around the stake tucked under the pillows with him. He can't stop shaking. It's a fine tremble, overtaking all his finely honed motor skills. His own body outside of his control.

The knock on the door acts like the snap of a twig in the complete silence and Dean jerks once.

"Sir?"

The knock comes again, sharper and it makes Dean wince. He shuts his eyes, his nostrils flaring because he can't help it. Can't help wanting to take in that smell and swallow it. But it doesn't fill him.

He doesn't remember—doesn't know how he finds himself standing in front of the door, hands pressed flat over the spread of cheap paint in its clam pink.

The door vibrates under his hands as she knocks again and the stake lies on the bed forgotten. This close, he might as well be tasting it.

"Sir? You were due to check out fifteen minutes ago. Hello?"

The light, when he cracks open the door blinds him for a moment. It falls over his skin like white fire and he hisses, notices, just barely, how the noise makes the woman step back. 

His eyes are fixed on the skin at her neck. 

There are folds of it, too white and freckled and he can't see the curve of her neck or the veins underneath but his gums hurt and he knows exactly where it is by sound and smell.

Her heart picks up and the smell changes, becomes sweeter and more intoxicating. Dean swallows. She's panicking. She's not sure why, but she's panicking and she doesn't want to be near him because she knows something about him isn't right.

But his hands are twitching; he wants to feel the give of her beneath them, crushing her into place so he can get a few mouthfuls. 

"Sir—" she chokes on it and doesn't move away.

Dean licks his lips. Just a couple of mouthfuls. He can drag her inside—it's cooler there, he can take what he needs and let her go. 

Just a little. That's all he'll take—that's all—

The door is forced open and a hand, not his, sends the woman stumbling back. "Go."

In the back if his mind, recognition tries to push through but all he can think is that more distance has been put between him and what he needs. 

Dean lunges forward. His fingers brush for a second against the folds at her throat, not seeing the wide eyes and horrified gasp from the woman. He feels the pulse of a vein under his thumb and teeth split through his gums, his own blood a sweet, sweet tease on his tongue.

A hand locks around his wrist. He's driven backwards and the touch of the light on him leaves his skin. He's snarling but the thing that's stopping him from getting to the woman is wrapped tight around him. Not strong enough. But the hand on the back of his neck isn't pushing him off but drawing him closer.

"You're so stupid. You're so stupid, Dean."

He doesn't understand what its saying. He just cages it against the door and it's easy because he's not being fought on it despite the way his shaking is almost violent now. He feels the way his bones rattle with it.

But the oddest thing happens. 

He can smell himself on it. His nose, he presses it along the stretch of neck and he can smell himself there.

The skin is familiar under his mouth and Dean opens his mouth over it, sucks as much of it as he can into his mouth, tongue working against it to get every last drop of moisture on it and fuck he wants this so bad he's hard with it. The blood is coming to the surface, separated by almost nothing and he groans, shudders against the furnace he's pressed against. 

It's good, it's so good and he's starving and the anticipation is dizzying.

"Shh. It's okay. We can do this Dean. Just. You gotta come back to me, man. Don't lose it when you bite, okay?"

The skin tears easily under the points of his teeth. The body trapped between him and the door jerks but the hands on him don't leave, don't try to shove him away, but they tighten hard enough that had he been the way he'd used to be, something would've broken. 

He didn't even need to do much, the wound that had been there to begin with just giving like it'd never healed all the way. It takes one strong pull of his tongue working against it and the blood blooms in his mouth, coming quick and strong as his throat works, overfilling and slipping out from the corners of his mouth to smudge over his cheeks, slick and warm. 

The trembling stops as he swallows, he can almost feel every cell breathe with it. And he's gasping, the noise sounding wet as he barely lifts his mouth long enough to do take in the lungful's of air. It drips from his chin.

"Dean."

This time, he hears it. This time he recognises everything about that voice and the way his name is said and he freezes where he is, mouth about to close around the wound again to get _more_. His own restraint surprises him.

Eyes wide he pulls away, body sluggish now with the blood warm in his belly. His hands are still keeping it—him— _Sam_ —pinned to the door by the shoulders and when he realises how hard he's gripping him, Dean can't look at him. He can only close his mouth, swallow and ease his grip.

"Good. You stopped." The words are said on a sigh and out of the corner of his eye he sees the jut of his Adam's apple as Sam drops his head back against the door. And the instinct to yell at him, to snap at him for being so stupid and doing that when Dean's so fucking out of it and could rip at his neck at any time—it's there, but Dean doesn't yell. Instead he looks at him.

What he sees has Dean stumbling back. His legs are shaky and he tells pride to fuck itself as they give under him and he falls on his ass, eyes locked on his brother. 

Sam only stays there for a second before he sinks to the floor too. He doesn't make an effort to stop the bleeding at his throat. 

He's pale. A paleness that had probably already been there before Dean had torn into his throat. The skin beneath his eyes has an unhealthy yellow brown touch to it. His hair is matted to his face and the blood that's soaked into the edge of his t-shirt is black red. He stretches his legs out slowly, like his joints hurt and he winces as he tries to sit properly and it shifts his shoulders, tugging on the wounded skin.

"You look like crap, Dean."

And that's what snaps Dean out of it and forces him to focus.

The woman, he can hear her speaking hysterically, probably into a phone. The cops.

Shit. 

He ignores the dizziness, the sweep of fullness that makes him unsteady and gets to his feet, grabs the nearest peace of material he can find—one of his shirts, discarded on the bed—and wets it in the bathroom. 

He doesn't approach Sam. He doesn't think he has the will to stop himself from drinking Sam dry twice in the same day. Instead he tosses the wet shirt at him and it hits Sam's chest with a wet slap before falling to his lap.

Jaw clenching he turns away and starts looking around to where his things are spread out. He has to move fast. He doesn't know how long they have before the cops show. 

"Get up, Sam." He blinks his eyes a few times, licks his mouth and almost flinches when Sam's taste bursts inside his mouth all over again. _Shit._

"Dean."

"Get up."

" _Dean._ "

The woman's talking to someone else now. This time, not on the phone. She's telling them their room number. A guest refusing to check out—attacking her. Fuck. Maybe they won't even get out of here without a blood bath.

He's panting just thinking about it. It'd be so easy to just draw them into the room, lock the door behind them. They wouldn't even know what had hit them, would be dead and bleeding before they made it more than two steps inside.

It's Sam's heat, closer than before and the shadow over him, that pulls him away from those thoughts. He glances up at where Sam's looking down at him. 

Up close, his skin looks even worse than Dean thought. But he's standing okay now. Like he'd regained his strength those few seconds he'd spent on the floor. His eyes are covering every inch of Dean's face and Dean wonders how Sam can stand to be so close to him. His mouth is completely smeared with blood, his chin, his hands and his shirt too. But Sam's just looking at him, calm.

"Clean it up. They'll be here soon and we have to hurry right?" Sam says.

Dean almost chokes at that, can't help the look he flicks at the nasty wound he's made on Sam. It's right in his face and although the bleeding's slowed it's still there.

"They're gonna be here soon," Sam repeats, "and we won't be able to stop to do this again for a while, " he flattens his mouth, for the first time looking grim, "just do it, Dean."

It takes a few seconds where Dean filters out everything else and just stares at the determined lines of Sam's face, sees the stubbornness there. He steps forward.

His grip is different now, light—almost tentative on Sam's arms and he ducks his head. He can see edges of torn skin and he winces. He'll patch him up. He'll—

He closes his eyes and ignores the way his chest feels like it's going to collapse in on itself, fights down the anger and grip of the self loathing knotting tight in his stomach.

Sam gasps at the first touch of his tongue. Probably because he'd been expecting Dean to lose it again. Or maybe because—maybe because Dean hasn't done it like this any of the other times, lapping at him like he could do it all day.

It's long strokes of his tongue as he cleans Sam's skin himself, licking it off Sam's skin and rubbing it over the roof of his own mouth as he steps closer and breathes Sam in, the familiarity of it that he can identify now that he's not under a fever of hunger. And despite how what he's doing makes him want to put that stake through his chest, it comforts him, eases him. It soothes him and he continues in the same gentle slide of tongue on skin as Sam shivers, a delicate little movement in such a big body, stepping closer to Dean, head dipping, big hands coming to rest on Dean's waist.

He hears Sam's swallow. It's loud in his ears. He hears the way Sam's breathing changes. It turns shorter, comes quicker and Sam's skin warms even more under Dean's hands. He can feel it even through the shirt.

He follows the metallic tang of blood up where it's smudged a little higher up and his hands slip up, careful now as they support Sam's head, turning his face a little to the side. Dean inclines his own to get at the little bit under the turn of Sam's jaw and he licks along the bone, the taste a million times better than any pie he's ever had and he doesn't notice he's pressing himself closer and closer; that he's edged to the side enough that Sam's thigh rubs against his crotch and Sam's hip digs into Dean a little above his own.

He licks Sam clean and then rests his cheek against the damp sticky skin, mouth breathing warm air over Sam's wound. For a moment Dean's out of it enough that he doesn't even remember to pay attention to the fact that there's always too much noise around him. It feels good.

Then Sam sighs. He draws away from Dean but not his body. He stays there, right where he is, arms sliding around Dean's middle as he dips his head and his mouth, rubs against Dean's cheek and there's the brief heat and trail of his tongue at the corner of Dean's mouth that has Dean groaning and squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

And then Sam's teeth are tugging at his bottom lip. Sam's nudging his mouth against his and slipping his tongue in to lick the blood from Dean's teeth with small tentative flicks. He sucks it off of Dean's lips too, drawing them into his mouth, first his top, tongue tracing the line of Dean's lip, then moving to his bottom and alternating until Dean can't taste Sam's blood on them anymore and his lips feel swollen.

When he starts on the inside of Dean's mouth, Dean opens it for him, let's him right on in and just shudders as Sam's tongue rubs over his own, sucks there too, taking his time. Until he's not cleaning up Dean's mouth anymore and they're both just gasping into each other's mouths, lips catching on each other's. 

It feels right at home in the middle of this new alien thing they have going.

Dean feels downright lethargic with it. Which is stupid because Sam's the one who's just lost another bout of blood and Dean's surprised he's not sitting on his ass, weak as a baby, unable to move at all.

"Don't go like that again."

Dean drops his head and let's go of Sam to rub an unsteady hand over his face.

"You need me."

That's nothing new, Dean thinks, but doesn't say aloud.

Sam bumps his head against Dean's, bone smacking into bone and wraps his arms tighter around Dean until he's practically squeezing the life out of him. 

"I'm gonna drill it into you, Dean." There's a touch of hysteria edging the forced humour in Sam's voice. "You're gonna have to learn that it's mutual."

When Dean speaks, his voice comes out rough, like it used to after too many shots of whiskey. He doesn't get drunk anymore. "Yeah, Sammy."

Sam nods and steps away from him. He's looking at Dean with wary eyes, as if he's afraid Dean'll bolt the minute he turns his back on him.

"We have to go," Dean makes himself say. Realises he's said 'we'. Realises by the relief on Sam's face, that he'll never take it back. It seems making a break for it once, was the most he'd had in him.

But then Sam's head tilts the side. Dean hears the siren—it's loud. To him. They have maybe another ten minutes to get out of there, but he's distracted by the peculiar look on Sam's face. It's the look he gets when he knows something and he's wondering how long it'll take for Dean to know it too.

"Your gums always split badly when they come through, don't they?"

Dean frowns. "Yeah." He runs his tongue over his gums on reflex, feels the closed little wounds that'll just reopen again the next time he loses it. "But it's fine—"

He blinks. 

Sam nods, once. Then he walks back over to the door where the shirt Dean had thrown at him still lies. He picks it up and puts it to his neck. "We better get moving then." He glances over at Dean over his shoulder.

Dean can't do anything but look at him. His throat is too tight now. His heart is going a mile a minute.

"We don't know how long it'll take before it hits me too." And with that Sam opens the door and steps out into the light outside, shouts over his shoulder as he goes, "Grab your stuff and make sure to cover up your face—you got really bad burns last time you went out in the sun."

Dean hears him walk away, knows he's heading towards the Impala.

The woman and whoever is outside with her have fallen silent. The sirens are still heading their way.

Dean shakes himself out of it, swallowing the bile working its way up and grabbing his stuff as fast as he can. He tugs on a hoodie and pulls it over his head. 

Sam had—

Sam.

He throat works and he tries to control it. He shoulders his bag and strides over to the door. The sun makes him hiss and snap his head away from it as he pulls the door shut behind him.

He walks quickly to the purr of the Impala, wonders briefly when it was that Sam had taken the keys from him.

Beneath the horror settling in as he thinks of what has just happened, the smallest tendril of excitement is growing bigger, basking in the damage that has just been done.

He doesn't even think though, about the stake that has been left behind.

When he tosses his stuff in the trunk, this time, he's driving away with Sam and he thinks, as Sam watches him settling into the front seat and drag a towel over his head, that it won't be long before someone comes.

Except this time, they'll be coming for them both.

Sam keeps his eyes on him for a moment longer and it's there, blatant for Dean to see. 

Satisfaction.

Then Sam's leaning forward, tucking a tape into the slot. 

Dean pulls out of the car park as music blares to life.

And he drives.

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Divided We Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359934) by [butterflybrigade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflybrigade/pseuds/butterflybrigade)




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